Brain Plague

we dedicate to the One True God.' No need to read out that one.

The transit cross asked, 'Why does your design radiate from the center outward in all directions, instead of the more traditional cross section? How can we lay out plans?'

Chrys blinked at her keypad to pass that on. Fireweed explained, 'Thematic unity requires that the inner design reflect the outer. Let all who dwell within remember that they partake of a sunlike power.' The board members took that pretty well. They wanted aesthetics, all right.

'I'm concerned about adjacencies,' spoke a lamppost-like humanoid. 'The manufacturing plants must be located adjacent to adequate transport. ...'

The questions wore on, some clear and apt, others impenetrable. At last the ladder with the two clawed arms spoke again. 'The Urulite bid came in lower,' the ladder insisted, to the visible annoyance of the giant sea urchin, whose limb endings twisted like screwdrivers. 'And their design was truly pathbreaking.'

With the Silicon Board meeting behind her, Chrys redoubled her work for her show. But a few days later, Jasper called. 'Congratulations,' announced the sprite with its tiny map stone. His eyes flashed with eager micros. 'The choice for Silicon is Eleutheria.'

At first Chrys was not sure she had heard correctly. 'Are you sure? I thought they would pick the Urulites.'

He waved a hand dismissively. 'That was just trying to push the price down. All along they knew what they wanted.'

It was beginning to sink in. Her head ached as she thought what lay ahead.

'The Map of the Universe leads us to destiny,' proclaimed Forget-me-not. 'To shape the greatest metropolis the Fold has ever known. It's written in the stars.'

'The greatest structure ever to arise in all the known universe, ' agreed Rose.

Jasper's namestone, the mysterious landscape, now seemed labyrinthine, a maze in which to get lost. 'I don't know,' Chrys said slowly. 'I guess I never believed it would go through.'

His eyes smiled beneath the crag of his forehead. 'You yourself won't have to do much. Just manage Eleutherians properly, like you've done.'

'It's not that.' She took a deep breath. 'I've been thinking. I don't believe great art was meant to be lived in. It's a contradiction: the ego of a great mind versus the comfort of many.'

Jasper nodded. 'The great cathedrals were not particularly comfortable, but look what life flowed from them. The Palace of Asragh—what do you think inspired the great flowering of Urulite culture?' He raised a finger. 'Do you think humans invented art to hang in a museum? Art has always served to communicate wealth and power, to incite revolution, to invoke the gods. Art like yours.'

For a moment Chrys was speechless. 'If sentients want to build something, why in the Fold would they need help from humans, let alone micros?'

'That's like saying, why would an Iridian restaurant hire an Urulite chef? They simply want the best.'

She remembered Doctor Sartorius, his evasive response about microscopic sentients. 'They're making a statement, aren't they? Human rights for microsentients.' Sentients even smaller than a pesky snake-egg.

Jasper shrugged. 'Clients always have their reasons.'

Vain art, hidden politics, a living place for millions. She sighed. 'All right. I'm sure Selenite will help.' As she had for the Comb.

Jasper's face went blank. He turned his head sideways, his jaw prominent in his profile. 'If you don't mind, Chrys, could you turn aside a moment?'

She looked away, avoiding micro contact. On the shelf by the pyroclastic alarm, Merope had curled up asleep. The cat was putting on weight, Chrys noticed.

'My people have been informed that Eleutheria wants this job for their own.'

Without thinking, she started to turn her head, but stopped. 'Without Selenite? But we're partners.'

'Eleutherians have decided opinions on the Deathlord.'

Some things would be easier without Selenite; but without her, the project would end up like the Comb. 'At least she knows her business.'

'The sentients aren't interested in her, either. They figure they'll rely on their own structural engineers. But I agree with you, Selenite would be a help.'

'If we take this job,' she told her people, 'we'll need the help of the Deathlord's minions.'

'The Deathlord?' Rose was outraged. 'How can you deal with that authoritarian state?'

'One True God,' said Fireweed, 'You know how I love you and all your people, and I long to obey your word. But the Deathlord violates your own most fundamental principle of mercy.'

'Nevertheless,' Chrys replied, 'we dwell in the same universe. We must work together. Don't you think the minions are better off for your influence?'

Rose flashed, 'The Deathlord has forbidden me to visit.'

Appalled, Chrys looked back at Jasper. She couldn't deal with Selenite—and she couldn't deal without her.

Jasper's sprite still looked carefully away, his features in profile jutting like the Dolomite cliffs. 'Why not wait a generation or two. Ideas are immortal, but micros don't live forever.'

That night was her turn on call for the Committee. In her window flitted a young woman in torn nanotex, hair disheveled, no stone sign. She raised both hands as if reaching up the face of a cliff. 'Help me,' she groaned. 'Nothing left. They'll kill me if I don't pay.' Not so smart—the smarter strains didn't threaten, they just took you to the slave ship.

'Where are you?' The woman didn't answer, or couldn't, but the locator in Chrys's window showed the vicinity of Gold of Asragh. Chrys no longer hung out there; the place had gone downhill, too many pimps and psychos, let alone the thickest slave traffic in the Underworld.

Out front, the old nightspot now had a simian boy and girl in red vamping for customers. Chrys looked away. She asked the medic on call, 'Do I have to go in?'

'That's not where the signal reads,' the worm-face replied. 'Go to the alley, behind, possibly underground.'

She craned her neck dubiously. 'Not alone, I won't.'

'You're monitored every moment; they all know that.' The medic stretched his worms for a better look down the alley. 'On second thought, I'll come with you.' Usually the medic stayed outside, to avoid spooking the patients, some of whom had never known decent care.

Chrys stepped into the alley, looking out for cancerplast. In back of Asragh, in the darkness, a door opened. The door seemed to leer at her, suspiciously convenient. She liked the look of this less and less.

'I'll stick with you,' the medic assured her.

She shined her light inside. The corridor, some sort of warehouse, smelled stale and appeared empty. She stepped inside.

The door closed with unexpected speed, pushing the medic back out while closing Chrys inside. 'Doctor!' she called; but the worm-face was gone.

Out of the shadows stepped three humans, their faces displaying deathly grins. Too late, Chrys turned and pounded the door. The door swallowed her fists. She was trapped.

At her keypad she blinked frantically, but she could raise nothing, even from Plan Ten. No response except a dull noise. Something had jammed the signal.

'Rose? Rose,' she blinked desperately.

Behind her a man caught her shoulder. She kicked backward so hard it strained her leg. The man hurtled backward, landing with a thud. Some part of him had not hit well; slave reflexes were poor. 'Rose?' she called again.

'Great Host, the Council has convened. We agree to let you take this journey. Do not be afraid; you will choose.'

'Damn you, Rose—you get me out of here, or await my wrath.'